


off the leash

by 30k (plaindmg)



Series: nyandalphon [2]
Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, erune!sandalphon, good coffee being wasted because sandalphon is too busy being horny to drink it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22961956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaindmg/pseuds/30k
Summary: erune!sandalphon goes into heat.lucifer, ever the dutiful supreme primarch, cannot abandon him in these trying times.belial, ever the dutifully scheming bastard, also cannot abandon him in these trying times.aka: (unrelated!) times kitty!sanchan's kitty status fucks him over.
Relationships: Belial/Sandalphon (Granblue Fantasy), Lucifer/Sandalphon (Granblue Fantasy)
Series: nyandalphon [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650175
Comments: 13
Kudos: 87





	1. Lucifer

**Author's Note:**

> spiritual successor to [cat unboxed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22932247), though that context isn't required.
> 
> this work contains **dubious consent** due to the concept of sandalphon going into heat; in fact the whole thing is dubious as hell despite my best efforts, so please proceed at own peril. trying to lewd lucifer took a whole decade off my lifespan and i fear for what i would have to do to atone for it...

Sandalphon is in their garden, midway into pouring freshly brewed coffee, when the nausea starts.

The thin stream of hot coffee wavers as his hand does, almost missing the cup. Lucifer’s concerned gaze is on him immediately. 

“Sandalphon?”

“I,” Sandalphon starts, about to brush off the momentary stumble with _I’m okay_ , but the rest of the sentence suddenly skitters away from him—there’s a rush building in his ears, and an odd flush rising up on his face and creeping down his back.

He only just manages to set down the cup and the coffee pot on the table before the nausea spikes. The garden grows _hotter,_ impossibly hot even with the ample sunlight filtering in through the glass; he feels sweat dot his temples, the base of his ears. 

“Sandalphon,” Lucifer says again, sharper this time. “Are you alright?”

Any reply Sandalphon could have mustered to reassure him is lost when the world abruptly tilts on its axis, somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach, and doesn’t quite right itself again.

Then he realizes it’s _he_ that did the tilting, his knees giving out for a moment, when he lands backwards in Lucifer’s arms instead of on the grassy patch he’s been standing on. Dimly, he wonders how Lucifer managed to move fast enough to catch him.

“Sandalphon,” Lucifer says, for the third time. There’s a strange quality to his voice this time—or maybe it’s all in Sandalphon’s head, something in the weird haze he’s mind settled into warping the sounds around him. “What is wrong? I must summon Lucilius at once—”

“No.” The sentiment cleaves through the haze with perfect clarity, somehow; he feels his lips move more than hears the sound his voice makes. He licks them, mouth suddenly dry. “Please…don’t.”

“You are—unwell,” Lucifer decides. “I shall carry you there. Have no worries, Sandalphon. You will be taken care of.”

Sandalphon’s mind is still running wild circles around _you will be taken care of_ when Lucifer’s grip around him shifts, arms coming up around his middle securely, and the needy sound that elicits from him makes them both freeze.

“Ah,” Lucifer says, in a tone like he’s beginning to reconsider something.

The muddled nausea and dizziness and heat is rapidly resolving itself into something Sandalphon would much rather it _didn’t_ resolve itself into. He realizes, with unwelcome clarity, that he’s somehow ended up with his nose pressed against Lucifer’s chestplate, having twisted around in his arms; realizes, with unwelcome clarity, that he’s ended up pressing _into_ Lucifer in the process.

Lucifer moves backwards instead of letting him go, and something at the back of Sandalphon’s mind whispers that it’s probably to prevent him from hitting the ground. Something louder and more insistent at the front of his mind instead demands he _follow,_ press in _closer,_ chase Lucifer’s scent and warmth down to the source and become one with it, and so he goes.

They end up with the back of Lucifer’s knees hitting the chair—and then with Sandalphon settling over him, half-kneeling. From the new angle his face is buried in Lucifer’s neck instead of his chestplate, and that’s somehow _better,_ somehow perfect, somehow exactly what he needs, except he needs _more,_ so much more—

“Hush,” Lucifer soothes, and the hands that usually feel cool to the touch feel like a brand on Sandalphon’s back when Lucifer brings them up to hold him steady. He can feel the word vibrate in Lucifer’s throat from the proximity; he wants to taste it, so he does, and his mind catches up way too slow to Lucifer’s sharp intake of breath.

He blinks slowly up at him, taking in the tense set of Lucifer’s jaw. The hands on his upper back are clenched just an edge too tight, bare skin on bare skin where the gloves of Lucifer’s armor end. He’s not _looking_ at Sandalphon, he realizes, but he’s not lowering his chin either—his neck is right in front of Sandalphon’s face, so he buries himself in it with another needy sound that sounds shamefully close to a mewl.

“This is my fault,” Lucifer finally says. “When I designed you—this was never an intended consequence, but I must have not taken something into account—I sincerely apologize, Sandalphon.”

“Mn,” Sandalphon disagrees into his neck, mouthing at it with an absentminded determination. The disorientation and nausea seem to have melted away entirely to be replaced with a slowly building heat, some kind of singleminded _need_ growing stronger by the second; the points of contact between him and Lucifer feel grounding, but at the same time intoxicating beyond any kind of sense.

“I cannot take advantage of you in such a state,” Lucifer continues. “I will not take from you something you would not give, were you in your right mind.”

There’s a flurry of answers flickering through Sandalphon’s mind to that—unbidden snippets of past desires, all the times he’s stolen looks at Lucifer’s graceful hands and stared a beat too long at his eyes when he wasn’t looking, a thousand contradictions that he can never voice because he might be a coward, yes, but he’s not a coward right _now,_ and that seems more terrifying than any foolish indulgence from the past.

“Want you _now_ ,” he finally settles on, thoroughly miserable and still wanting. At least he’s not lying; his nose might still be in Lucifer’s neck, thighs clenched around Lucifer’s, but nothing in him protests the position. It doesn’t seem enough— _nothing_ seems enough. “Please?”

“You do not know what you are saying.”

Sandalphon’s hand clenches in Lucifer’s hair, as if instictively trying to draw his head back for easier access, or maybe pull him in closer still. Lucifer lets him. The hands on his back fall to his hips, long fingers trailing down his bare skin to grip his hips to steady him, and that’s when Sandalphon notices he’s been grinding down, distracted; hips shallowly moving against Lucifer’s thighs, almost enough to throw him off balance had Lucifer not anchored him. 

It would be shameful, really, and dimly he realizes he probably _should_ be ashamed, should be jerking away lifetimes ago and apologizing profusely to Lucifer for a mistake he can never atone for, but then he shifts and it’s suddenly so _good,_ Lucifer’s thigh rubbing up against him just right, that all his thoughts are swallowed in a flood of fevered warmth. He mewls again, this time louder; his forehead comes down against Lucifer’s collarbone, breastplate digging painfully into skin. 

Lucifer notices, and brings a hand up as if on instinct to guide Sandalphon’s head away from the sharp edge of metal; it’s gentle, so damnably _gentle,_ that Sandalphon could sob from that alone. A thumb traces againt his feverish forehead. The touch is cool, soothing away the pain in Lucifer’s typical infinite kindness, though at the present moment Sandalphon couldn’t care less about pain.

“Sandalphon,” Lucifer says for the fourth time, some primal part of Sandalphon’s brain keeping an obsessive tally of every single time his name rolls off Lucifer’s tongue. He’s guided gently away, Lucifer’s hands firm but unyielding when they pull him back out of Lucifer’s orbit. Immediately, the air that rushes between them feels too damp and too cold at once. “Stop.”

“Please,” Sandalphon tries to bargain again even as Lucifer brings his hips to a resolute still. Even through the haze of frustration, the unyielding Supreme Primarch strength in his grip sends something sharp and hot through Sandalphon’s blood. “Lucifer,” and it seems like it’s unavoidable, like he won’t make it through without paying with at least _some_ of the shameful things he’s kept close to his chest the whole time, so something has to give. He forces himself to meet Lucifer’s gaze. It’s clear, if strained, and it’s painful to hold—but it feels right, so he endures. “I’ve—thought about this before.”

He realizes Lucifer’s thumb has been making slow and soothing sweeps against his lower back, just above his tail, only when it stills.

Lucifer’s voice, when it comes, is soft. “You…what?”

Sandalphon squeezes his eyes closed against the shame, and then forces them back open. It’s too late to back down, so he might as well commit to the madness fully. “Ever since Belial told me,” he swallows, shifts minutely in Lucifer’s grip. “That I might go into heat. I’ve thought about it.”

The silence stretches on between them, anticipatory, so Sandalphon fills it again. “He told me I might come to him someday.”

Lucifer’s gaze grows dark at that. “I see. Sandalphon—”

“I imagined it,” Sandalphon confesses in a rush. The desperate heat from before has simmered into some sticky and bitter need low in his belly, but his mind feels clearer. Just as long has he can make Lucifer _understand—“_ I thought about what it would be like. Not with Belial, but with you. Lucifer, I’m—”

“The fault is mine,” Lucifer tells him. “And mine alone. Do not apologize to me.”

“I don’t care,” Sandalphon interjects, and it comes out sharper and more insistent than he’d ever have dared before. “You don’t—want to?”

It’s a vitally important question Sandalphon fears the answer to the most; after all, if Lucifer doesn’t want him, is entirely unaffected by Sandalphon in his lap scant moments from flinging himself at him entirely, or worse, is disgusted by it—then it doesn’t matter what Sandalphon himself wants, or why he wants it.

Lucifer’s lips part on an exhale, and Sandalphon’s mind goes blank for a second with pure _desire,_ which, turns out, has not simmered away into anything at all—he rediscovers, again, just how _close_ they are, for all of Lucifer’s careful attempts to put some distance between them.

“I do not want you to regret this afterwards.” 

“Wanted you for ages,” Sandalphon tells him, and realizes it’s true only once the confession hangs between them. “Not just now. I just—could never tell you, and I never thought you’d ever—so.” He breathes out between them. It comes out harsh, on the edge of laughter. “I’m sorry. But not for wanting you.”

“I do not wish for you to be,” Lucifer murmurs. “Your desire is not something to be ashamed of.”

They pause like that, Sandalphon still perched on Lucifer’s lap, a thin sheen on the side of Lucifer’s neck where he had buried his mouth. Hands still firm around Sandalphon’s hips, holding him steady.

“You may still leave,” Lucifer tells him. “Just say the word, Sandalphon, and I swear on my name as the Supreme Primarch—I will see to it.”

“And if I don’t want to?” 

“Then I will take responsibility for having made you this way.”

Sandalphon _keens_ at that, answer caught between a whine and a hiss. “ _Yes.”_

He ends up almost tumbling back into Lucifer’s body, now that the grip around his hips has eased. Those long fingers skate up his back, up his spine, drawing him in to settle more comfortably against Lucifer; his forehead almost falls to rest against Lucifer’s chest, again, when Lucifer gently holds him off.

The confusion at that clears instantly when Lucifer brings a hand up, undoing the latches on his chestplate with deft fingers. It falls to the ground beside them, and then Lucifer is guiding his head back to rest against his clothed chest now, with no metal in the way. The fingers tangle in his hair in the process—fingertips brushing against the base of one sensitive ear on accident, and the electric pleasure of _that_ sends Sandalphon bumping his head into Lucifer’s hand with an insistent noise.

Lucifer hesitates, but only for a beat. Then the fingers are rubbing against the base of his ear firmly, skating up the edge and back down, and Sandalphon could almost sob with the combined relief and gratification of it all. His hips shift in response to the movement—and this time Lucifer doesn’t pull him away, doesn’t hold him still, but instead shifts against him to press up harder where Sandalphon needs him most; like he’s attuned to his body, like he knows exactly what Sandalphon wants and is fully willing to give it to him, fully _able_ to give it to him—

Sandalphon comes with a choked-off cry against Lucifer’s thigh, and Lucifer holds him steady through it.

The world filters back in slowly, piece by piece. There is the rhythmic stroking of Lucifer’s hand through his hair; at some point he’s shed his gauntlet as well, with no cool metal catching at Sandalphon’s scalp. There is the sunlight filtering in, now warm again as the feverishness of his heat subsides; the everpresent smell of coffee, though it must have gone cold by that point. The overwhelming, bright and warm feeling pooling somewhere under his ribcage—he feels secure, and held, tail winding lazily around Lucifer’s leg and face pressed into his chest. 

His mind feels clearer than it’s been in ages, even with the fuzzy tinge of satisfaction. He tries to summon shame, any kind of regret—but it doesn’t come; instead, there’s only a melted-sugar kind of peace. 

“Are you alright?” Lucifer asks, when he realizes Sandalphon has been staring at his chest instead of into the back of his own eyelids. 

“Mn,” Sandalphon replies. “Yes.”

And for the moment, he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dread having to look at this again after i wake up with higher standards but right now i've not slept long enough to not care :^) thank u for partaking in this horny lucisan mess
> 
> anws, i had to get this out of the way so i can write the belisan section in peace. that should probably be posted, uh, at some point in the near future if i don't change my mind.


	2. Belial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sandalphon in this fic 🤝 me writing it  
> “belial please just let me finish it’s been 2.5k words already holy fuck”
> 
> this was simultaneously kind of fun to write, but also kind of horrible. i am very sleep deprived so please lower your expectations and be kind to me; the belisan agenda has made me lose a significant amount of brain cells to worms.
> 
> while this is, _somehow_ , less dubcon than the lucifer chapter - it still involves heat, so i have to reiterate the **dubcon warning**. the chapter is meant to be entirely separate from the first one, so please don't be confused at any inconsistencies!

He spends so long thinking about what Belial said, obsessing over the implication and the possible ways he could confirm it—up to and including finding a way to raid Lucilius’s library for any relevant texts without getting caught and eviscerated—that when the first symptoms start, his first thought is that he’s _had it_ with Belial’s shit.

He stalks past various primal beasts, ducking out of sight of anyone that would take more than passing notice of him, until he finally makes it to the room Belial has taken up temporary residence in. 

To his luck, when he barges in, Belial is actually there, tapping the end of a quill against his mouth as he considers a report from the mountain of paperwork in front of him.

“Belial,” he growls.  


Belial looks up at him. “Oh, Sandy. How can I help you?”

Sandalphon glances over at the open doorway. There are several lower-ranked primal beasts in the room over, dutifully filing the completed paperwork, and they should be out of earshot for a regular conversation, but—well. He’s not there for a regular conversation, and he can’t afford anyone overhearing this.

“Come with me.” The order comes out a bit snippier than he intends, and perhaps he shouldn’t be speaking like that to someone who might not be his superior but is technically his senior in every way; but Sandalphon, rapidly losing his grip on mental clarity and the ability to form sentences without wanting to throw up right after, cannot really afford to mince words.

“Hm? Is there an emergency?” Belial asks. His gaze sharpens with curiosity, but at least he’s sweeping the papers aside and standing up. “Did Cilius summon me?”

Sandalphon’s hand clenches on the cloth around his waist.

“Or Lucifer, I suppose,” Belial allows, when Sandalphon fails to reply. “Well, lead the way.”

Belial’s hand comes up to brush his lower back on his way out. It feels more instinctive than deliberate—three fingertips against bare skin, guiding him past the doorway. It makes Sandalphon’s blood boil.

“So, where are we going?” Belial finally asks when they’re several paces from the room, keeping up easily with Sandalphon’s brisk gait. Damned _long legs,_ Sandalphon thinks viciously, and walks faster. 

He can’t answer, because—Sandalphon doesn’t _know_ where they’re going, yet. He walks fast because the way Belial hovers over his shoulder pisses him off, and because the urgency coiled low in his stomach just winds itself tighter anytime he slows down for a moment or lets himself think. He discards paths as they appear; one leads towards Lucilius’s lab, another cuts uncomfortably close to the garden, yet another leads to a wing he’s never even been in before. 

They end up in a deserted half-hallway, one marble wall blocking out the sunlight and an open field filled with sculptures of some kind on the other side. It feels tranquil and dusty, like the abandonment has slowed the flow of time through it. It would have to do.

He turns on Belial, who looking thoughtfully at the sculptures around them. When he notices Sandalphon trying to incinerate him with his eyes, he fixes his attention on him instead, expectant.

“Tell me how to fix it,” Sandalphon demands. Standing still suddenly feels like a horrible idea, and he shifts in place, biting back a low curse. Every cell in his body feels like dry wood just before it’s lit; thrumming with potential, and seconds from bursting into prickly heat.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific, Sandy,” Belial says, looking progressively more nonplussed. “As fun as reading your thoughts would be, I’m not psychic.”

“You told me,” Sandalphon says through his teeth, “the species I am based on goes—”

“ _Ah,”_ Belial says, and the confusion vanishes instantly to be replaced with too-knowing smugness. “Is that what this is?”

Sandalphon grits his teeth and regrets having left his sword behind before storming off to confront Belial. 

Belial, who is now looking at him like he’s a particularly fascinating report left on his desk by Lucilius. Sandalphon’s ears twitch, and his hands clench involuntarily on his waistcloth in an effort to still them; Belial’s eyes snap over to that, cataloguing the movement, before he looks back up at him.

“Sandy,” he says, voice somehow softer and more suggestive. _Insiduous,_ Sandalphon thinks. _Probing_. “Are you asking me to fuck you?”

Sandalphon jerks in indignation, and almost bites his tongue off. Stupid sharp cat teeth. “—What?! Why the hell would I—”

“Do you even know what you are asking for?” Belial cuts his blustering off easily. “I’m not Cilius, Sandy. If you’re coming to _me_ about this, I’m assuming you’re taking me up on my offer.”

He steps closer, eyes glinting, and Sandalphon swallows as he backs away towards the wall. “Am I wrong?”

“You—” Sandalphon stutters. “ _What_ offer. I—”

Belial advances on him again, and Sandalphon’s palms hit the cool marble behind him. In the shade, Belial’s eyes still somehow manage to catch the slowly dying sunlight of the afternoon; it lights them up into crimson, clear and bottomless ruby set ablaze. It’s almost hypnotic—or maybe it’s the slowly creeping heat clouding his mind, making him fixate on every single little thing.

Belial leans in, too close again, arm coming up to cage Sandalphon in with ease he hates with every cell in his body. The move kicks the temperature between them up by a few notches. 

“I can help you break the heat,” Belial says, enunciating every word with taunting clarity that Sandalphon resents. “A good time will be had by all, and you can be on your merry way.” He brings his other hand up, swiping an index finger under Sandalphon’s jaw. It comes away wet with sweat; Sandalphon would cringe away from it, if there was room to cringe away with the cool marble pressing into his bare upper back.

Belial rubs his thumb and index finger together, pointedly. Then he steps away, and Sandalphon takes in a shuddering breath of suddenly cooler air.

“Or,” Belial says, resting a hand on Sandalphon’s chest to push him further back into the wall. “You can go ask Cilius for help—or sleep it off, whatever. What will it be?”

 _Definitely_ not the first thing, Sandalphon thinks. But the idea of _asking_ Belial to—would sleeping it off even _work_? He can’t tell if Belial is testing him again, feeding him bullshit just to see how Sandalphon reacts to it, but the idea of being caught in his own quarters, desperate and too humiliated to call anyone for help, seems exactly like the kind of torture Belial would absolutely love to inflict on him.

Belial stares at him expectantly for a few seconds as Sandalphon struggles to process what he just said. Then he steps away, hand dropping from Sandalphon’s chestplate and gaze dimming in vague disappointment.

“Right,” he says. “Good luck with that, Sandy.”

Sandalphon’s body moves faster than his brain can catch up. He catches Belial’s wrist before it falls, and then wonders why the hell he did it. “Wait.”

Belial turns back instantly, raising an eyebrow at Sandalphon’s grip around his wrist. “Oho?”

“Would it,” Sandalphon asks, and licks his too-dry lips. “Would it help?”

“I don’t know,” Belial tells him with shameless nonchalance, gaze fixed on his mouth. “But it wouldn’t hurt to try, would it? After all, the evolutionary purpose of a heat is to—”

“Fine,” Sandalphon says. Standing still for so long has set something churning slowly in the vicinity of his navel, nauseating and thick, growing worse with every passing moment. He doesn’t know how long he can hold out without caving into it—and really, _really_ doesn’t want to find out. “Do it.”

Belial sweeps back into his personal space, far too close again. Too intensely focused on him again, in a way that makes it even harder to think with his smirk inches from Sandalphon’s face. “Hmm? Do _what_? Use your words, Sandy.”

Sandalphon digs his nails into Belial’s wrist, shifting restlessly against the cold marble. The cool surface is soothing against his rapidly warming skin. He aims for some of his earlier spiteful bravado when he replies; instead, his voice just comes out urgent and tinged with need. “Don’t make me say it.” It’s the heat, he thinks, it’s the damned _warmth_ that makes his cheeks flush when he bites out the next word. “ _Please.”_

“Ooh, I like that tone on you,” Belial says, gaze growing darker. For a terrible moment Sandalphon worries he might continue being difficult, might ask for _more_ , but Belial simply leans in again and dips in far too close to Sandalphon’s neck for comfort. Then, for _several_ terrible moments, Sandalphon hates that he’s even thinking of that as a good thing, hates the way his body responds to it, chin lifting as if to give Belial better access to whatever he’s doing.

“Well, Sandy, since you asked so nicely,” Belial smirks, and twists easily out of Sandalphon’s grip—and then Sandalphon’s face is pressed against the cool marble as Belial effortlessly flips him around. “I will oblige.”

Sandalphon’s wrist ends up being pressed into his own lower back as Belial cages him in; his other hand is pressed palm to the wall, as if for balance, as Belial leans in closer, closer. His tail shifts restlessly as his ears strain to pick up every movement behind him. 

“How would you like this to go?” Belial wonders. “Mm, Sandy? If you have any requests, I’m feeling generous today.” He presses his mouth against Sandalphon’s flushed neck from behind, earning an instinctive jerk of Sandalphon’s hips towards the wall—but it’s way too little, and that’s just frustrating, because the only option after that is to move _back_ into Belial. 

“Just—” Sandalphon begins, and then bites down on a curse as Belial drags his mouth up the curve of his neck towards his jaw. Belial’s tongue flickers along the edge of it, which should be disgusting with how sweaty and flushed he is, but instead Sandalphon’s thoughts just—fizzle out for a moment. “ _Do_ something.”

Belial just chuckles, low and amused, and slips his other hand between Sandalphon and the wall. At the first brush of fingers against his navel his hips jerk up into it, but Belial just snakes his hand up under the edge of his armor, prying the belt buckle open to let it fall on the ground next to them. The waistcloth follows it, pooling around his feet as it falls; Belial drums his fingers against the edge of his armor once, and then slips his fingers under its edge again to lift it off a fraction.

The cool air feels infinitely gratifying against Sandalphon’s skin. He suddenly wants all of the armor _off,_ wants the stifling weight _gone_. Pushing his hips back into Belial as Belial slips two fingers under the hem of his undershirt widens the gap a little; so he does that, and shudders when Belial splays his hand across his stomach. 

“Easy, kitty,” comes in a smug tone behind him when Sandalphon’s tail gets caught between them with the movement. “Patience is a virtue.”

Sandalphon scowls into the wall, and then moans when Belial’s fingers trace further up, taking advantage of every inch of the space Sandalphon has created. They come away slick with sweat when Belial eases his hand back out. Then he traces his hand lower, and Sandalphon bucks into it, trying to get it where it would actually _help,_ would provide some kind of relief—but Belial merely presses it against his skin, right at the edge where his armor ends, and pushes Sandalphon back into him.

He only realizes that Belial has let go of his wrist when he blinks sweat out of his eyes to see he’s had his face buried in both forearms. Belial’s newly freed hand finds the latches on his chestplate, easing it away with a click; the waistcloth on the ground muffles the thud as it falls to join it. Belial’s arm comes up around him, pulling him further back into Belial’s front. 

“Come on, Sandy,” Belial says against his neck. “Show me how much you want it.”

 _Show it fucking **how** , _Sandalphon thinks, but that sentiment dies in his throat before it can be voiced when Belial cups him through the leggings. His knees go weak; but Belial’s grip around his waist is unyielding, holding him up with no effort as he jerks up into Belial’s hand. Belial, to his credit, doesn’t tease too much—rubs him firmly, kneading in a way that makes Sandalphon’s vision blur at the edges, tracing his fingers along Sandalphon’s length until it feels like his leggings are sliding against it with how wet he’s gotten.

And then he stops. 

The bastard only laughs at Sandalphon’s growl—half out of his mind with desperation—and easily sidesteps his tail. “Impatient,” he chides. “You can’t rush the good part, you know. Why get so worked up if you’re just going to end it here?”

Sandalphon can only whine in response when Belial hooks his thumbs into his leggings to finally ease them down his thighs. The cool air is a shock at first, but it’s forgotten fast when Belial’s hands move, fingers running across the sensitive skin of his inner thighs and then back up.

“You know,” Belial says conversationally, “I wondered about your anatomy, but it seems like you’re giving me a hands-on demonstration after all. Let’s test another theory of mine, shall we?”

Sandalphon only has a moment to wonder about what that means when Belial splays a hand over his ass, lingering for a brief second before spreading him open, and then Sandalphon can only bury his face in his arms with a choked-off cry as Belial presses his thumb against his hole.

“Just as I thought,” Belial says, sounding satisfied. His thumb makes a lazy circle— the movement is slick and easy, because it turns out Sandalphon has been _dripping wet_ the whole time. “So you _do_ get wet. I wonder what purpose that serves—well, that makes it awfully convenient for me, in any case.”

Sandalphon keens when the fingertip breaches him, and then eases out, replaced by Belial’s index finger. It goes in easily with next to no resistance; then it’s joined by Belial’s middle finger, up to the first knuckle—and then the second—and then Belial sets a languid rhythm that makes Sandalphon’s thighs tense and his breaths come harder, harsher, against his forearms. 

He loses himself in it for a while, in the rhythmic slick slide and the feeling of being methodically worked open, until the sensation starts feeling like the beginnings of being lit from the inside again; viciously unsatisfying and not _enough._

Of course, that is when Belial stops again. He eases his fingers out, and the feeling of not-enough from before has nothing on the hideously _empty_ feeling right after; Sandalphon realizes he’s been panting when Belial hooks the fingers of his hand into his mouth, fingertips pressing down over his teeth. 

He swipes his tongue against them almost automatically, and then flushes violently when he realizes what he’s tasting. He bites down, and Belial’s thumb presses into the hinge of his jaw painfully in warning.

“Behave, kitty,” Belial coos, and pries his jaw open. “I like it when you play rough, but there’s a time and a place.”

Belial doesn’t let go even as Sandalphon simmers in angry confusion over _what,_ exactly, the time and the place is. Instead, he strokes his other hand up his thigh and along his side in a parody of soothing, until Sandalphon’s spit starts running down the wrist of the hand holding his jaw open. It’s humiliating, especially when he can’t even bite down on the noise in his throat when Belial’s fingertips skate too close to his length; dimly, he realizes it’s probably exactly what Belial is getting off on. 

It’s at that point that he decides—if it’s submission that Belial wants from him, if it makes Belial stop teasing and finally _give_ it to him, then he will provide it.

He takes a shuddering breath, and runs his tongue against Belial’s fingers, relaxing his jaw. It takes herculean effort to still his hips and stop them from twitching involuntarily; but he manages, instead moving into the touch against his skin. He ends up relaxing against Belial in the process, the buttons of the adjutant uniform pressing against his bare back, and Belial’s hand stills on his stomach.

“ _Sandy,”_ Belial says, and _now_ he sounds strained. His voice is several notes lower than his usual smug drawl, and that means something must be working, something must be going _right_ ; Sandalphon flicks his tongue along Belial’s fingers again, tasting salt and something vaguely bitter. It takes a few more seconds of that, combined with Sandalphon pushing his bare ass against Belial’s front, for Belial’s patience to give way as well.

He hisses something Sandalphon can’t quite make out and then unceremoniously hoists him up with an arm wrapped around his waist; he steadies him against his chest with his other hand, still wet with Sandalphon’s spit. There’s a sharp twinge of alarm that cuts through the haze of pliant resignation, but Belial only carries him a few paces along the half-corridor, revealing a stretch of low parapet overlooking _something_ underneath. Belial sets him against it; conveniently, it’s just low enough for Sandalphon to rest his forearms on when Belial nudges his legs apart with his knee. A clothed thigh slides between his own bare ones to press up. Sandalphon works back against it with a sigh, and then mewls when Belial presses up harder. 

“Look at you,” Belial says, over the sound of a zipper being drawn down. It sounds a lot more reverent than smug, a tone Sandalphon has only heard from him in relation to Lucilius. It only stokes the fire—when Belial swipes his hand between his thighs again, as if checking again how slick he is, when he lines himself up at Sandalphon’s entrance, _finally,_ and then slides home inch by unresisting inch, that tone still rings in Sandalphon’s ears. To hear Belial’s voice like that, like there’s something humbling and impressive about Sandalphon with his legs spread in front of him is such a _rush_ —

“What a _rush,”_ Belial echoes his thoughts with a moan. He leans over Sandalphon, hand clenched hard over his hip as he holds him steady. “To think, the future Supreme Primarch would be so—” he thrusts forward, sending Sandalphon pitching forward with a low moan “—desperate to get on my cock. What do you think your dear Lucifer would think of—?”

“ _Shut up_ about Lucifer,” Sandalphon tells him, but it comes out breathless. “And _fuck me.”_

This time, Belial doesn’t waste time teasing. He gets straight to the point, setting a powerful rhythm that makes Sandalphon squeeze his eyes shut. Sandalphon rests his weight on one forearm, pawing blindly with his other hand somewhere behind him—and is rewarded with Belial following easily when he clenches his hand in his hair. He hooks his chin over Sandalphon’s shoulder, mouthing at his jaw, hands roaming along his front and under the sweat-soaked undershirt clinging to his skin. 

It’s blindingly _good_ once Belial finally stops ignoring the cues of Sandalphon’s body that he’s apparently been reading perfectly the whole time. When Sandalphon wants it deeper, _harder,_ Belial moves into it just right before he can even vocalize it; presses his mouth against Sandalphon’s shoulder, hikes him up higher for an angle that makes Sandalphon see stars, sweeps his fingers up to his chest to brush against a nipple—and then when that makes Sandalphon whine, does it again, harder, until it becomes a full-on moan. 

Lost in the sensation, he almost forgets how hard he’s gotten himself—then he’s reminded of it rapidly when Belial snakes his hand back down, stroking slowly in counterpoint to the fast and hard pace he’s set. He thinks he’s drooling, actually, mouth open and panting, too far gone to care much about it when Belial hits him just right at just the right pace, and then several things happen in rapid succession.

One—voices come from somewhere under the parapet. Two—Sandalphon _recognizes_ these voices with a dawning alarm that cleaves clean through the haze of heat. Three—he realizes Belial recognizes them too, from the feral curve to the smirk against his neck when Belial picks up the pace instead of stopping.

And four—Belial curls a hand over his mouth, tightens his grip around him, and thrusts up to hit a spot that makes Sandalphon’s entire vision flush into pure static white, as he shudders around him and comes to the perfectly clear sound of Lucifer saying _'My friend, have you seen Sandalphon?'_ just a floor below him.

Gratifyingly, he also manages to bite down hard on Belial’s hand in the process.

When his vision finally fades back in by degrees, he realizes Belial is laughing. The hand he’s bitten is around his neck, loose grip helping him hold his weight up on his suddenly sore forearms; Belial’s forehead is pressed against his bare upper back, hair tickling the sensitive skin as his shoulders shake with barely repressed laughter. 

Sandalphon twists around in his arms, and then instantly regrets the decision when it makes Belial slide out of him completely—which sends something he’d really rather not think about much trickling down his thighs. He realizes, with disgust, that Belial has also wiped his hand on his leggings; though, admittedly, there weren’t many options otherwise.

Belial meets his gaze when he looks back up from the mess of his leggings bunched around his knees. The mixture of amused and smug satisfaction in his eyes would piss Sandalphon off were he not simultaneously blissed out, emotionally scarred, and completely exhausted. Instead, Sandalphon just stares mutely as Belial raises his eyebrows at him.

“Did you not know where we are? Sandy, you really didn’t think this through, did you,” Belial says with a grin that has a soft edge to it Sandalphon has never seen before and doesn’t want to think too hard about. “You really could’ve planned better.” He steps away, stretching his arms with a satisfied sigh, and then looks pointedly down at Sandalphon’s knees. “We could’ve done this on my bed…or yours, if you’re into that. Would have been much more comfortable, don’t you think?”

Sandalphon flushes as the vestiges of the warm satisfaction finally trickle away, leaving him feeling somewhat cold as he yanks the leggings back up and cringes at the rapidly cooling mess. The conversation below them has already ended, voices drifting away to become indistinct; he doesn’t know how he’ll face Lucifer again, or Lucilius, for that matter, but that is a concern he’s not willing to indulge at the moment.

“That reminds me,” Belial starts. “I’m supposed to see Cilius today. Would be a shame to tell him _someone_ distracted me from my work, hm?” At Sandalphon’s scowl, he grins. “Joking, joking.”

“Do not,” Sandalphon begins, and sets a hand against Belial’s chest to shove him back for emphasis. Except he can’t shove him all that far, so he just ends up glaring with his hand resting against Belial awkwardly. “Tell anyone about this.”

“Oookay,” Belial says, entirely unconcerned and smug again. “Though, since I took time out of my busy day to help you—how about giving us a kiss, Princess?”

And for a second, that’s enough to make Sandalphon see red—except, something must have crossed the wires in his brain somehow, because in that moment he gets a brilliant idea: he curls a hand around the back of Belial’s neck, tugs him down sharply, and applies stupidly sharp cat teeth to his lip until that elicits a gasp that lets him lick into Belial’s mouth. When he pulls away, Belial looks stunned for once; it’s satisfying enough to make the momentary loss of control to pettiness worth it.

“That good enough for you?” he says, feeling proud when his voice comes out almost as level as he aims for it to be. Belial just blinks at him, eyes wide and gaze dark; he licks his lips, once, and Sandalphon mirrors the movement unconsciously. Then he remembers the pile of armor on the floor a few steps away, and cringes.

“Full of surprises today, Sandy,” Belial finally murmurs when he unfreezes. He offers Sandalphon his arm, even, which Sandalphon pointedly does not take; has the grace to not look too smug when Sandalphon winces on his way over, and even helps him pick up the armor when Sandalphon pauses a bit too long wondering how he’s going to crouch down without dripping all over the floor.

They face each other after Belial watches him awkwardly tie the waistcloth back into place to hopefully conceal most of the mess. Infuriatingly, Belial looks almost pristine, outside of a light flush and hair messed up where Sandalphon pawed at him. 

Belial clears his throat. “Do you have a plan for getting back from here?” Taking the embarrassed silence on Sandalphon’s end as confirmation otherwise, he waves a hand somewhere vaguely behind Sandalphon. “There’s a stairway no one uses back there, you probably won’t meet anyone. That said, next time—”

“Ugh,” Sandalphon cuts him off before he can say anything embarrassing about the possibility of a _next time. “_ I get it.”

“Do you,” Belial says, amusement tugging the corners of his mouth up.

Sandalphon tugs the waistcloth down, and does his best to glare. “What, are you waiting for a thank you?”

“What a tantalizing offer,” Belial says, in mock consideration. “But don’t strain yourself on my behalf. I suggest you leave now before someone shows up to see you in this state, hm? Unless that Lucifer comment was just for show—”

“ _Gah,”_ Sandalphon says, and stalks off in the direction of the stairwell Belial so helpfully vaguely flapped his hand at, hoping it’s actually there and not some kind of elaborate prank to finish off the day. Belial’s amused snort follows him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is faa...oh joy :^)
> 
> anyways, i submit for your consideration the following moods:  
> 1\. [a simple motion](https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=hD8B-XHgP-E&list=RDAMVMhD8B-XHgP-E) by tatu + gentle sad lucisan angst;  
> 2\. [dead inside](https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=FdfD_My85hY&list=RDAMVMFdfD_My85hY) by muse + belifaa (belial pov) &  
> 3\. [silk](https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=9xE6EKaDM9c&list=RDAMVM9xE6EKaDM9c) by crywolf feat. mothica + belifaa _and_ lucisan shoved into a blender
> 
> this chapter now also has [**art**](https://twitter.com/_xanren/status/1235683847259312128?s=20) by ren!! ah, ren, most merciful of cyberbullies...


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